


One Terribly Cursed Day

by WeaglesAndBrobeans



Series: A Very Capitals Collection [10]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Falling In Love, Minor Injuries, Oshie has a no good very bad day, Pining, Protective Braden Holtby, frat boy tj oshie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-01-16 16:01:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21273872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeaglesAndBrobeans/pseuds/WeaglesAndBrobeans
Summary: “Sorry today’s been shit,” Braden offered quietly, his words getting lost in T.J.’s half dry mess of hair.“Naw, it hasn’t been shit. Well, you’ve made it good at least.”OrT.J. Oshie has a no good very bad day and Holtby might be falling in love.





	One Terribly Cursed Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hardscrabble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardscrabble/gifts).

> This is a college AU – Holts didn’t play college puck and definitely didn’t attend school with Osh, but in this little universe he does, they all do. ENJOY!

Attraction is wild and unpredictable. It can be untimely and uncomfortable. It can be thrilling yet devastating. Attraction doesn’t follow any rules; it just storms upon you whether you’re you're ready or not. Sometimes it’s immediate and par for the course, expected. Oh, but sometimes it blooms deep in your chest when you least expect it, spinning you around and twisting you up because that friend suddenly seems like so much more.

Sometimes all it takes for a spark of attraction to catch fire is one terribly cursed day.

\-------------------

Braden Holtby methodically buckled the straps to his goalie pads, humming quietly to the tune of the song in his earbuds. For the third time that morning, he glanced towards T.J.’s empty stall.

The sophomore was usually one of the first players to arrive for practice, but not today. Today there had been no sign of T.J. and Holtby, glancing worriedly towards the clock, couldn’t help his concern. Their team had ten minutes before they would take to the ice and the Washingtonian had yet to arrive.

It was impossible for Braden to pin down the exact moment that T.J. first caught his attention. The kid had transferred over from a rival school during the summer and somehow managed to slide into their team seamlessly. He’s just so easy to be around. Braden liked him from day one.

But when did he begin noticing the small quirks, the tendencies, and the predictability? When did he become so in tune with the forward that a small shift in procedure left Braden feeling unbalanced?

A commotion at the door tore Braden from his thoughts. In burst T.J. Oshie, cheeks bright with exertion and hair askew. Braden couldn’t help but give the kid a once over. His feet were clad in slippers, his legs with a wrinkled pair of sweats. And to top off the look, a baggy stained t-shirt hung from his frame. He was adorable.

“Fuck that fucking storm,” T.J. grouched as he began stripping. “Knocked out my power so my phone didn’t charge so no alarm.” He paused for a moment to take in the amused faces of his teammates. “Did no one else have this problem?”

Before they could chirp the underclassman for his obviously disastrous start to the day, the coach beckoned the team to the ice. Coach Oates, a tall stern man, swept his gaze across the boys as they jostled their way past him until his eyes landed on T.J. “Oshie are you kidding me?” he reprimanded.

Ducking his head bashfully, T.J. began to scramble all the more to be ready for practice in a reasonable amount of time. “Sorry Coach! Fuck. Oh, sorry. Shit. I’m coming!”

Something resembling pop rocks ignited in Braden’s chest. It sparked and fizzed. The feeling was foreign, new and exciting. It was also precisely the opposite of what he needed to be feeling to play hockey that morning. Shaking his head, the senior goaltender turned away and did his best to settle his emotions.

Oshie. Oshie with his expressive blue eyes and his playful grins. Oshie and his never-ending drive to do better, to be better. Oshie and his protective streak. Oshie and his wide-eyed innocence contrasted jarringly by his filthy mouth. Oshie and his clinginess and his celebratory hugs and his drunken cuddles.

This had to stop.

Holtby expertly tucked the thoughts away and zeroed in on hockey. That is, until T.J. took a puck to the face.

The shot had ricocheted off a stick redirecting it forcibly into the side of the forward’s head. Eyes always tracking the puck, Holtby saw it all. His heart leapt into his throat as the rubber disk slammed into T.J.’s rosy cheekbone, leading him to flinch back violently, twisting as he collapsed to the ice. His legs kicked as the pain sent adrenaline ripping through him.

It took a moment for everyone to react, but soon players were waving frantically for help from the bench, and their coach was kneeling beside the fallen underclassman. Just as the man’s knee hit the ice, T.J. shot upright, his now gloveless hand pressed against the cut as it bled freely.

Something ugly twisted in Braden’s gut as he watched his teammate put on a brave face.

“I’m fine coach,” T.J. muttered, pushing away helping hands. Braden saw right through the act. He saw T.J.’s hands trembling. He saw T.J.’s wide eyes glazing with unshed tears. He saw T.J.’s fear at the thought of another concussion.

The injured athlete stood on shaky legs, but when Braden reached out to steady him he was brushed aside. And that. That hurt.

But T.J. was in pain. Surely it was clouding his mind.

As he watched his friend and teammate skate off to get stitched up, Holtby once again had to box up his emotions. He’d deal with it later.

\-------------------

Later came with a phone call. Okay, it came with a series of messages on Snapchat which were followed by a phone call.

The first snap was a selfie of T.J. grinning through bloodied teeth, cheek puffed around a row of stitches. The lettering across the picture said, ‘no concussion, good 2 go!’ followed by a thumbs-up emoji.

Braden breathed out a sigh of relief. Relieved that his friend would be okay. Relieved that T.J. thought to message him. The concussion protocol meant T.J. was kept cooped away from the team until long after practice, long after Braden had to race over to make his 9:30 Economics class.

The second snap came later in the morning. This was of a flat bike tire. The text reading, “FML”.

Hoping to catch a moment with T.J., Braden offered a ride, but Oshie was quick to turn him down.

Pouting, Braden shoved his phone back into his pocket after the reply came in. “No I’m good bruh.”

He tried not to dwell on it.

About ten minutes later his ringtone sounded off, the folksy acoustic melody cutting into his study session.

“Osh?” he answered, heart beginning to race. T.J. had literally never called him before. He always texted or sent a snap or yelled across the campus. He just wasn’t the kind of guy to pick up his phone.

Unsteady breaths drifted through the line. Braden felt himself tensing.

“Can you… can you pick me up?” asked T.J., but something felt off. T.J. sounded tired and his voice was strung tight like it had been earlier this morning when he’d told off the coach.

“Osh. Babe. Are you okay?” Braden asked in lieu of an answer. He’d already leapt over the back of his couch and grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter. “Where are you?”

“That hill outside the student center.”

Now backing his Ford out of its parking space, Braden racked his mind.

“You mean Morrison? Where they do all that initiation shit?” He burnt rubber turning a corner.

“Huh. You know, now that you say that it makes more sense,” mused T.J., voice notably calmer since he'd first called. Braden on the other hand had only escalated since the start of the conversation.

“What the fuck is going on Osh?” he demanded, slowing his truck as he turned up Morrison. It was hard to see through the sheets of heavy rain that had begun a few minutes ago. The last thing he wanted to do was run the kid over.

In the dim of his headlights, Braden spotted his friend. T.J. sat on the sidewalk, soaked to the bone as he curled in around himself. When he noticed Braden’s truck he unfurled and wobbled to his feet. Still hunched inward he limped lightly towards the passenger door.

Braden’s protective streak flared. Throwing open the door for him, he reached across to grab T.J’s arm and pull him fully into the cab, eyes searching for injury all the while. Road rash stained his chin and a bruise was forming on his temple. The kid looked like hell.

“Teej,” he implored softly. “What the fuck happened man?”

Sopping wet and shivering violently, T.J. grinned at his friend. “Got a flat tire.”

“You crashed your bike?”

“No, but I had to walk.”

T.J.’s short answers were beginning to irk the goaltender. Arriving outside of the dormitory, Braden searched the parking lot for an open space. When he couldn’t find one he pulled up onto a median instead. He wasn’t about to make T.J. walk a mile in this rain.

Finally settled, he turned to fully face his friend.

“Please don’t tell me you tripped.”

The request startled a laugh out of T.J. who was now grinning softly at his hero for the day.

“No! I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”

Holtby raised an eyebrow that led to T.J. backtracking.

“I didn’t. Actually, this ass-hat,” he giggled, “came flying down the hill, rolling in a trashcan. I didn’t even see it coming,” he laughed. “Cut me off at the legs and launched me down the hill after him, but no trashcan to protect me you know?”

Braden was struggling to find the humor.

“Osh, what? Are you okay? Did he stop to help? Did everyone just leave you out there all alone?”

Rage simmered in Braden’s chest at the thought of T.J. left in the rain, hurt and alone.

Oshie apparently didn’t feel the way he did about the matter. Rising to the assailant’s defense. “They were wasted man!”

Eyes deadened with condescension, Braden leveled his friend with a no nonsense gaze. “Osh. It’s a Tuesday morning. Why the fuck would anybody be plastered at 10 am in the middle of the week?”

Huffing and leaning his head back against the seat, Oshie’s eyebrows dipped in concentration. After a brief pause his eyes lit up. “The science building!”

“What?”

“The storm knocked out the power in the science building; classes in there were all cancelled!”

Leaning closer so Braden could catch the underclassman’s eyes, he retorted, “that’s no excuse. Still. It’s no excuse. You needed help.”

“Holts, I called you. I needed help and I got it. I got you.”

Something about the way T.J.’s tone had softened pulled Braden in. All he could see for a moment was the sophomore’s pink lips. But just as he began to drift forward, T.J. sneezed violently. Braden jerked back, startled out of whatever trance he’d found himself in.

It wasn’t until that moment that Braden realized how hard Oshie was shivering. His drenched hair glued to his head and his cheeks stood brighter than usual against pale cold skin.

“Let’s get you warm.”

Braden pulled back and climbed down from the truck before circling around to open the passenger door where T.J. sat unmoving beyond the shivers wracking his frame.

“C’mon man. Let’s get you inside.”

\-------------------

The trip from truck to dorm room took far more effort than Braden was anticipating. T.J.’s shivers paired with his limp meant the goaltender did most of the heavy lifting in their effort to get inside and get warm.

Finally tucked away from the onslaught of rain, the two stood for a moment, dripping wet.

“At least the heat's on,” rumbled Braden as he guided T.J. to perch on the end of his bed. “Strip. I’ll find some sweats for you.”

Braden rummaged through his dresser before pulling out a pair of gray sweats with their school logo emblazoned on the front. When he turned back, he froze in his tracks.

Oshie sat on the bed, now in just his boxers. Any other circumstance and it would have been erotic as hell. But with the wet hair and the road rash and the bruising and the slight shivers, it wasn’t lust Braden felt.

A fierce hot streak of protectiveness seared him. T.J. looked impossibly soft. And when he glanced up with his wide blue puppy dog eyes, all Braden wanted to do was wrap him up like a burrito and keep him within reach. And maybe beat the bastard who caused this with his goalie stick.

Snapping out of it, Braden offered up the sweats before turning to get changed himself. Where their friendship is usually all banter and jokes, instead a stillness settled in the room.

Finally snuggled into his own sweats, Braden turned back to T.J.

“You warming up?”

Instinctively he felt his hand reach out and rub T.J.’s shoulder as he made the statement. Involuntary affection was apparently becoming a trend in his life.

Those big blue eyes landed on him again, pooling with sincerity. “Come snuggle me?”

And fuck. Cuddles were normal. They were common. But with Braden’s head-space today, there’s no way he’d be able to keep it platonic. But to say no? That had to be worse. So he climbed onto the bed, taking the time to drag T.J. with him until he’d curled around the younger man.

“Better?”

T.J. yawned out a yes and nuzzled into Braden’s neck.

“Sorry today’s been shit,” Braden offered quietly, his words getting lost in T.J.’s half dry mess of hair.

“Naw, it hasn’t been shit. Well, you’ve made it good at least.”

Something hot curled in Braden’s belly at those words. He did his best to brush it off, but he also may have indulged in squeezing his friend just a little tighter.

The two ended up drifting off into an impromptu nap.

\-------------------

Braden awoke in a haze, his head filled with cotton the way only a daytime nap could accomplish. The warm weight on his chest brought his attention to T.J. still snoring softly and curled in close. For a moment Braden allowed himself to just stare. T.J.'s unfairly thick eyelashes fanned out on his flushed warm cheeks. His lips jutted out in a pout. Beautiful. The kid was fucking beautiful. Braden couldn't find a better word.

Drifting his gaze around the room, Braden's eyes caught on the glaring red numbers of his alarm clock. Flashing brightly in its condemnation, the clock read 3:11 PM.

"Oh shit!" Braden yelped as adrenaline coursed through him. They had slept for nearly 5 hours. 

His jolt shifted T.J. awake as well, who blinked blearily up with wide eyes. 

"What?" he slurred, voice thick with sleep. 

Seeing him so soft and cuddly and confused, calmed Braden considerably. His heartbeat slowed and he breathed in deeply. Relaxing back into the bed, Braden reached out to brush some stray hair from the Washingtonian's face. 

"Sorry. We just kind of lost most of the day there bud," Braden assured him. "It'll be fine."

T.J. nodded before nuzzling closer, still very much under the fog of sleepiness. 

The thing is, Braden has done his fair share of cuddling with teammates. It was expected and perfectly normal. But this felt different. It felt intimate and it sent unwanted and horribly domestic ideas into his mind. 

Thankfully, T.J. hadn’t caught on to Braden’s internal spiraling. 

“I don’t want to move, but I’m fucking starving,” whined T.J., batting his eyelashes at his goalie. “Make me something?”

A sucker for the smaller man, Braden smiled softly and nodded.

“I’ll make some grilled cheese if you pull out the PlayStation.”

The two happily squandered the afternoon, munching on their sandwiches and bickering over Mario Kart. 

\-------------------

“You know what I need after a day like today?” Oshie casually tossed out as he mashed his thumbs into the PlayStation controllers.

Thoughts of making out and declaring their undying love for one another drifted through Braden’s mind but he held his tongue. “What?”

“I think we should go out and get white girl wasted,” T.J. enthused.

Braden scowled at the underclassman. “Who says that? My god Teej!”

Throwing down his controller, T.J. turned crawling up onto his hands and knees on the couch, facing Braden. Braden who was valiantly attempting to not read into things.

“Is that a no? Are you saying you don’t want to be with me tonight? Do I need to call Tom? Tom will get wrecked with me. I know he would.”

Envy reared its head and Holtby hated it. When did he become possessive of the Washingtonian kneeling next to him?

“Fine. Fuck. Just, not the lacrosse house.”

T.J. reared back. “Bud, how little do you think of my party sleuthing? I would never go to a lacrosse party. The girls’ basketball team is hosting tonight!”

Standing up and dancing in a circle, “It’s gonna be litty,” he sing-songed as he shimmied.

Braden found himself rolling his eyes. “I see you’re feeling better,” he grouched. “And don’t fucking say litty.”

His grumpiness didn’t seem to faze T.J. one bit. “Of course I’m feeling better. Your care taking skills are…,” he paused to waggle his eyebrows, “litty.”

\-------------------

The thing about parties is in theory they could be fun. But Braden wasn’t always the party guy. When there was something to celebrate, he would be the first on the tables soaked in champagne and shitty beer. But most nights he would rather drink a glass of bourbon in a quiet hole-in-the-wall bar with local musicians quietly serenading him. This was not that.

Braden, for a while, found himself shadowing T.J. as he jumped from circle to circle, game to game. He was admittedly entertaining to watch.

T.J. constantly called to random classmates and danced his way through the crowd. Walking up to the ping pong table T.J. hip checked a scrawny kid out of the way, grabbing the ball and bouncing it cleanly into the final cup.

“Don’t fuck with our game!” the kid whined, but T.J. just laughed and skipped off to another room.

T.J. sashayed and danced and drank. It was frustratingly endearing.

Later in the night he was standing on the kitchen island as a crowd of wasted university students cheered him on. He downed one, two, three beers through the sweatshirt Braden had lent him.

He’d be more upset about it if the image of T.J.’s lips and tongue against the fabric hadn’t invaded his mind.

What finally got to Braden was the dancing. Tom had apparently also decided to make an appearance, which is fine. Braden loved Tom. He’s a great guy and an amazing teammate. And it’s not like Braden had staked a claim on the younger forward, but when T.J. reached down, beckoning the broad shouldered freshman to climb up and join him, Braden felt livid.

Blind drunk, T.J. pulled the younger man in close, grinding on Tom for everyone to see. He tossed his head back, beer drenched hair dangling as he whooped and hollered.

Quietly, Braden slipped away, his emotions choking him as he went.

Sitting in his truck Braden banged his forehead against the steering wheel. T.J. didn’t owe him anything. He was just doing what he always fucking did. And none of it meant anything to him, clearly.

None of his justifying managed to lift the weight in his chest.

“I didn’t drink enough tonight,” Braden groaned to the empty space of his truck.

Before he could decide whether to ditch T.J. or wait him out, a flashing of lights caught his attention. The campus police had arrived at the party.

“Fuck,” Braden swore has he jerked the keys in the ignition. Half their team was at that party, most underage.

Pulling up outside of the dilapidated sorority house he peered into the darkness hoping some of the boys would notice their getaway car. Hoping T.J. would notice.

The first teammate to take note was their captain Alex Ovechkin. He’d actually jumped out the kitchen window before turning back to catch his best friend Nicklas Backstrom who toppled out of the window onto the bigger senior. They collapsed in a heap giggling as more of their teammates crawled out.

The group crept alongside the house before crawling into the back of the pickup.

“Holts you beaut!” cheered Jacob Vrana, sticking his head through the window separating the group in the back from Braden.

“Where’s Teej? Where’s Willy?” pressed Braden, ignoring the praises of the intoxicated freshman.

Just as he was about to give up, the two burst through the back fence running with a policeman hot on their trail.

Braden began to drive, hoping to help create some distance. Tom leapt into the back with ease, but T.J. stumbled and tripped.

Heart hammering in his chest, Braden yelled over his shoulder. “Fucking pull him in!”

As T.J. stood and reached out, his team grasped his hands and launched him into the bed of the truck just in time. The moment T.J. landed Holtby stepped on the gas and peeled away from the scene.

The group drove aimlessly for a while, wanting to ensure they’d made a clean get away, but eventually Braden began to drop his teammates off at their respective homes.

Maybe it was conscious, maybe not, but he’d left T.J.’s dorm for last. This time, he turned the truck off and hopped out. Just as T.J. turned to leave something overcame Braden.

Desperately he reached out and caught a fistful of the collar on T.J.’s shirt.

The problem with allowing instinct to takeover is knowing what to do once it settles. Standing in the cold with a handful of fabric caught in his hand and an expectant gaze aimed at him from T.J., Braden suddenly felt horribly unsure. He also didn’t want to back out now so he just spit it out.

“Stay with me? Tonight?”

He’s crazy. He knows he’s crazy. But he’s lost all control. Before T.J. could even respond, Braden lunged forward and claimed Oshie’s lips in a searing kiss. The kiss sent shock waves down to his toes and giddiness soaring in his throat. But the moment he pulled back he felt absolutely blindsided by shame. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Fuck.”

Braden reeled back as panic set in.

He almost missed T.J.’s words.

“Finally,” gasped out T.J. as he leaned back in for another kiss. Braden couldn’t wrap his mind around it. Before their lips met once more, he pressed on T.J.’s chest, keeping him at bay. “Wait what?”

“I’ve been trying so hard to get you to fucking kiss me!”

Shock. Could there be a better word for it?

Shock followed by irritation. 

“What? By molesting Tom Wilson in front of the entire school?”

T.J. has the sense to look bashful. “I was… I was trying to make you jealous.”

Braden shook his head in disbelief. “Are you insane?”

“Well, it worked didn’t it?”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh please. Please do. Perfect end to my fucked up day.”


End file.
